


The roads you've travelled

by winterysomnium



Category: Voltron - Fandom, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Keith has a car, Keith has a reason why he believes in aliens, Keith probably has a crush on his car let's be real, Lance realizes he is really into Keith TM, M/M, Swearing, Violence, no space cadets/high school/college AU, roadtrip au, they're not in space but they're still gay AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7715068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith and Lance go on a roadtrip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A roadtrip story told in three parts (hopefully). Posted on my tumblr winterysomnium, too.

“If the GPS doesn’t know where we are, how am _I_ supposed to know?” Keith asks, his arms locked and the signs they pass rusted shut, names they can’t make sense of, evening hours speeding past them, the AC their soundtrack for the last two hours; the radio dissipated into static, into broken up tunes, three cities ago. 

The sun sinks ahead and paints Lance’s lips, Keith’s hair, and Lance sips at his lukewarm coke, bought at a gas station; it’s not even fizzy, anymore.

“ _You’re_ the self-proclaimed genius driver with the ‘cool’ car,” he answers, like it’s something Keith should be aware of, should already know.

(He does.)

“What has being a good driver have to do with being lost? Thanks for the compliment though.” Keith looks at him and Lance bristles, abandoning the road to correct him, to show his annoyance, with the whole of his face.

“It wasn’t a compliment! It’s _never_ a compliment when people use air quotes, man.”

“You weren’t swapping at a fly?” Keith asks and Lance considers jumping out of the car, when he spots the tiniest, smug curl, the smallest of smirks and -- _is_ _that son of a bitch making fun of him now_?

“God; I hate you.”

“Doesn’t help us with being lost.”

“I don’t see _you_ helping either.”

“I’m calling Shiro,” Keith informs him, his cell phone a hollow light, smudged by his fingertips, shining up his neck; his background the corniest picture of an UFO Lance has ever seen.

(And he has seen all of them.)

(( It’s most of Keith’s facebook feed.))

It annoys Lance; his face shifts, sours into a scowl.

“ _Of course_ you’re calling Shiro. Whatever else are you _possibly_ supposed to do,” he says, mocking, focused again, Keith barely a sideway glance, barely a vision at all.

Keith pauses, silhoulette sharp against the darkening window, distant, as he narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You _always_ call Shiro.”

“He’s dependable. What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Shiro.”

“Why shouldn’t I call him then?”

“ _Because you can’t do anything without calling Shiro_! You can’t spend five damn minutes not talking about Shiro. As much as I like the dude, it’s annoying as hell.”

“Why?”

_Yeah, Lance; why?_

Lance’s ears warm, a gradient, pale red, as hot as a beach fire; Lance blames the sun, setting in front of his nose.

“It just _is_. Try to solve a problem on your own for once, geez,” he grumbles, opening the window to the scents of fields and drying grass, flowers wilting under their daughters, under their sons.

“Opening a window defeats the purpose of the AC,” Keith says but leaves Lance’s side open, even if it’s Keith’s car, even if he’s the one whose heat tolerance is a little bit lower; Keith’s weaker to the sun, his skin easier to burn. It feels like Keith’s coldblooded, sometimes, because he warms up fast, gets cold faster, his fingers always icy even if he’s been running, moving for hours; he never takes his stupid jacket off.

(Is he hiding scales?)

((He’s probably hiding scales, Lance concludes.))

Keith puts his phone down, trying to resurrect the GPS, helplessly lost on a road that hasn’t been built yet, a highway which skeleton they saw earlier, dirty and bare.

“Do we have any of Hunk’s sandwiches left?” Lance asks, deforming the smooth horizon of the can, empty, and Keith nods, bends to reach behind their seats.

He throws a sandwich at Lance and bites into one himself and Lance wishes the radio would accompany them, again.

(Keith being his wonderful, confusing, infuriating self is something loud, when there’s nothing to dull his movement, when there’s nothing to hide the melodies of his body and the clothes he wears, that worn sound of his jacket; Lance thinks he could write symphonies, hour long soundtracks, based on Keith’s existence alone.)

((How would they sound like? he doesn’t know.))

“I’m going to bed,” Keith announces after he’s finished with his plastic-wrapped dinner, climbing over to the backseat, he doesn’t even take off his boots.

“Goodnight,” Lance says, anyway.

\---

It doesn’t last too long.

The old-school, sleepy lanes, the stars, as the only travelers besides the two of them, the darkest night Lance has seen.

It all slows down, down to a rumbling, unsteady stop, right as they’re thirty miles from the nearest town, the sign above them  as Lance leaves the lights on and shakes Keith’s shoulder from the front seat, the engine gone, the AC off, the outside wildlife loud.

“What is it?” Keith asks, like he hasn’t slept at all, like he’s not disoriented, sleeping on the backseat of a car, like he has done it before; has he done it before? Has he done it often? Didn’t Shiro say he found Keith in front of his house after he returned from summer vacation --

“I think the car’s broken,” Lance says, softer than he intended, quieter than he talks, to anyone else.

“What did you do?” Keith asks, and the car bounces with his weight, the door opens, he’s leaving and Lance, Lance gets _defensive_ , because he’s tired and -- just, _tired_.

(He’s been driving for hours, navigating them through the countryside and countless turns, has been careful, has been _tender_ , because this is something important to Keith, his _car_ and he didn’t want to ruin it, didn’t want to scratch the paint or drive through glass and now he’s being _accused_ despite his effort, despite being nothing but a good _damn_ friend --)

“What the _hell_ , man! I didn’t do anything!” he snaps, jerks out of the seat before Keith can open the door for him, throwing him out the driver’s side and Lance paces around the road like it can take him away, take him closer to the town on the sign, to a place he can run away to, a place to vent.

(He really, _really_ wants to call Hunk, right about now.)

“Why are you yelling?”Keith frowns, fiddling with the keys, already studying the dash, dim; the engine gasps and he follows the sound, puzzled but sure.

“Because!” Lance yells, his arms cutting through the night, through the moths and evening flies, lured to the shining lights, to the columns of day. “ _Because_ , we haven’t been on the road for even a _full day_ and your piece of crap car has broken down _already_ and somehow it’s _my_ fault, even _though_ I’ve been a responsible driver this _whole time_ , the most responsible driver _ever_ , even more responsible than the driver in the commercial about most responsible drivers and --”

Keith blinks. “Oh. Well. Sorry. It happens.”

“ _What_ , you blaming things on me?”

“No,” Keith says, stepping onto the coarse asphalt, propping up the hood, the hot, (oil and metal and grease) scented air caught, stolen into his jacket’s sleeves. “The car breaking down. It happens. Thankfully the battery seems to be okay. I think one of the plastic connectors is busted again,” he informs Lance, finding his phone, carefully towering above the insides of the car and Lance sighs, snatching the phone from Keith’s hand and holding it up, so Keith can look properly, can touch with both of his hands. 

“Aka we’re stuck here?” Lance asks when Keith’s quiet, for two minutes too long and he shivers, with the kisses of the wind.

(It’s getting cold, midnight cold and Lance just wants to return to the soft, not real leather seats, to listen to the outside through speed, through roads, swept under the tires, whispering into his sleep.)

“We’re not,” Keith assures him, taking off his glove, looking for a place to keep it, a place to keep it clean.

 (Outstretching his hand, Lance holds it for him, too.)

“The car’s not working. What do you want to do?” He asks, yawning, wishing for a cup of coffee or a hot chocolate, made by his Mom; wishing for the soft blanket they keep for winter days, for freezing nights. 

 Keith shrugs. “Repair it. I have some stuff with me,” he says.

And it -- surprises Lance. (He didn’t know.)

“I didn’t know you know your way around cars.”

“Just the simple stuff,” Keith answers, from the back of the car, carrying a toolbox, taken out of the trunk; heavy, full.

“I’m better at driving cars then repairing them,” he says.

And Lance wonders --

“What else are you good at?”

“What?”

“What else are you good at? I mean -- we’ve been friends for _months_ and I don’t know anything about you, besides the fact that you believe in aliens and like driving cars. That’s -- that’s not a lot,” Lance admits and Keith shrugs, again, a repeat in motion, in meaning, in tone.

“You didn’t ask.”

And -- he didn’t. He never thought to.

He saw Keith as something strangely unreal, existing in front of him, saw him like he was a painting; something paper thin and open for him to find out about, someone he just _knows_ , someone he’s felt intimidated by, someone to treat as a point to surpass, to _conquer_ \-- maybe he just never thought to consider Keith, properly, until now.

(Suddenly, Lance feels ashamed.)

 “Are you cold?” Keith asks him, slowly contemplating his posture; shoulders high, muscles tense, mouth pale and probably cold, colder than it should be -- Lance shivers, despite himself.

“I guess, yeah,” he says.

“I found a flashlight, you can go into the car now,” Keith offers and Lance is too tired to be stubborn, to stay and be cold, to do anything else but nod, taking Keith’s glove with him, leaving the phone in Keith’s care.

He’s woken up, later, Keith above him, fingers oily and a tattoo of grease, under his chin, “Go to sleep,” he tells him and Lance huffs, annoyed.

“Why did you wake me up then, if you’re just telling me to go to sleep?” he grumbles, glaring at Keith, at his resigned, sheepish look he’s giving him, a look that somehow fits and doesn’t fit on Keith’s face, at all.

“You’re in the driver’s seat,” Keith says, blunt, and -- oh.

 _Damnit_. Lance blushes, scrambling out of the seat, clumsily; embarrassed to the bone.

“There’s a pillow under my seat.” he hears Keith say and he digs it out, thankful for the excuse, the distraction; the pillow smells of earth and cars and Keith’s hair and something about it calms him, makes him feel safe.

(Lance hears the engine, saying goodnight.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Lance are still on a roadtrip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another part of the series, also posted on my tumblr winterysomnium.

“Bears.”

“Polar bears have transparent fur and black skin, so they’re technically not white at all. Aka they’re kinda a walking optical illusion.”

“Are brown bears brown?”

“Yeah, I think they are.”

“Okay. Poison.”

Lance squints at a car, ahead of them, Keith waits and it’s slowing them down, doesn’t sit right with Lance’s bones so he surpasses its shine, the limit of speed; Keith throws out a smile.

“The most poisonous creature in the world is a box jellyfish,” Lance says; Keith listens.

Lance likes this.

(The attention.

_All_ of Keith’s attention.

_Good_ attention.)

((Something inside of him speeds up, too.))

It might be his heart.

It might be his reception of time, his reality.

Whatever it is, Keith accelerates its core and for once, Lance doesn’t fight it, lets it be.

(Lets it run, through the curves of his thoughts.)

“It’s like this transparent pouch of death and suffering,” he says, forming his fingers, pressing an _o_. “Another really cool poisonous animal is called a cone snail. It shoots tiny harpoons with a super strong neurotoxin, and there’s no antidote to it. Kinda terrifying, isn’t it?”

“They have harpoons?”

“ _Really_ fast, _really_ prickly harpoons, yeah.”

“How big are they?”

“Small,” Lance answers, adjusts his smile.

They’re a bit like Keith’s mouth, or his hands, he thinks.

(Small, deadly, fast; defensive; fists.)

“What about competition?”

“Competition?”

“Yeah,” Keith answers; nods.

“Right. Okay. So, a gold winning speed skater at the Sochi Olympic games had no proper equipment to train with in her country, yet she won three gold medals and set a world record, for the 5000 m track. Pretty cool, right?”

“You do know a lot of stuff.”

“I like documentaries,” Lance says, and the little, soft praise soaks through his clothes, through the seams of his joints.

“Ï like to run,” Keith says, like he’s had to think about it, like there isn’t much he likes to do at all, and then he secures his feet on the slope of his seat and watches the scenery, escaping, left behind.

(To someone or away? Lance bites in his mouth; Keith wouldn’t want him to ask.)

((He wouldn’t want him to know.))

They follow the route, the signs that should lead to Seattle, to Shiro, to the stops between.

It feels good.

It feels good, this conversation between them, this memory, sinking into their neurons, synapses awake and holding on; Lance wants to _be_ here, again, wants to be the center of Keith’s curiosity, of his testing (tempting) mouth.

(The radio coughs into life, as the trees thin.)

Keith touches it, fiddles with its source, the found stations louder, clearer, he settles on one that doesn’t talk.

Lance drives, until lunch, until noon disappears, until his fingers feel sore.

He drives, until nothing feels unchanged, anymore.

(He drives.)

—

Lance should have expected this.

Lance should have know, should have counted on Keith being – unfiltered; free.

He should have expected for Keith to be _Keith_ , to punch first, win second, plan third, he should have known Keith is just so – _kind_ , so damn _nice_ he doesn’t know what to do with any of it, has no manual, has no other way how to show it and now, now Keith’s mouth is raw, his knuckles a frown, the corner of his lip bleeds and he’s got a headache, left wrist cuffed to the right and they just – they just got arrested, half an hour ago.

_Keith_ got arrested and they’re disbelief and sore, side to side and Lance is the non-believer, he’s pissed and in awe and _pissed_ ; he heard one of the guy’s bones crunch.

“So, Mr. Sánchez, Mr. Myong, can you tell me what exactly has happened?” the police officer asks, holds herself kinder than most, stern but welcoming, respected; Lance sees it in her shoulders, in the confidence of her self.

“I punched a racist asshole,” Keith says, like it won’t get him into more trouble, like there’s no regret found anywhere, no remorse in any of his thoughts.

(Keith’s probably going to be charged against, Keith’s probably going to _jail_ and Lance wants to punch _him_ now, or at least kick his leg, for not even pretending that he’s at fault, that it was rash, harsh; too strong.)

He talk to Keith, with a look.

“What Mr. Myong _means_ is that he _overreacted_ when the _dude_ – I mean, Mr. _Hartford_ – had something to say about the two of us barging in into Wendy’s –”

“He called you a filthy immigrant!”

“Keith, buddy, do you _mind_?” Lance scolds him and Keith glares, displeased, _grumpy_ and somehow it’s endearing and irritating as hell, trying to get Keith out of anything, trying to force him to play along.

“Has Mr. Hartford called you what Mr. Myong said?” the police officer asks, serious and there’s this thing about Lance – he kinda sucks at lying. A _lot_.

(And – objectively – the guy _was_ a douchebag; at least by 80%.)

“…Yes, he did, Ma’am,” Lance says.

“So, the two of you entered the establishment, with the purpose of getting dinner, when Mr. Hartford commented on your presence, using the aforementioned slur, and that was when Mr. Myong decided to protect your honour, Mr. Sánchez; resulting in a physical fight. Is that correct?” she asks and –

Lance hesitates, Keith sends him a stray look and technically – _technically_ he got called a fag, too, but maybe people around here are not used to guys bursting into Wendy’s at ten pm while holding hands, maybe they’re not happy with guys being way too enthusiastic about Wendy’s or any and all restaurants you can find on the road because Lance was _starving_ , just so _so_ happy to finally find somewhere to eat he took Keith’s hand, grabbed it without thinking, without thinking what it could mean or look like or say, without thinking about Keith’s fingers being cold and his being warm and how Keith didn’t really press into the hold but didn’t let go either and then – then it got dizzyingly fast, chaotic, loud, big.  

“Yes,” he decides; Keith purses his mouth.

“Any objections to Mr.Sánchez’s statement, Mr. Myong?” the officer asks, eyebrow raised but Keith’s answer stays under his teeth, monotone, he doesn’t let go of Lance’s lie.

“No, Ma’am.”

“Will Mr. Hartford press charges?” Lance asks as she tells Keith to _just get here then_ , undoing his cuffs, as she asks him about his lip, busted but the blood dry; Keith says he’s fine, avoids Lance’s look.

“He can try,” she says, with a smirk, but her mouth stays a bit strained, a bit stern, as she sighs into the protocol, focused on Keith. “Thankfully, Mr. Myong hasn’t broken or damaged anything of Mr. Hartford’s, which works in your favour. And of course, I will make sure Mr. Hartford knows I won’t let the reason why Mr. Myong attacked him slide. So just try to stay out of any more trouble and you should be fine,” she concludes; Keith crosses his arms and Lance could start her a fan club right now, could declare a bank holiday in her honour and he tells her this, just _so relieved_ and she snorts.

“No flirting, young man,” she scolds him but accepts his thank you, accepts Keith’s stubborn silence, pushes them out of the station, into the damp night, into the comfort of Keith’s car, parked badly but there; Lance breathes out ten years of his life.

“I _absolutely_ cannot believe you, Keith!” he snaps, startling Keith out of his walk, startling the aimlessness of the place around them, Keith turns to see his face.

“What the hell, Lance!” he asks, like _Lance’s_ the trespasser, like he’s at fault, like it was _Keith’s_ day ruined, Keith’s night, wasted because of him and Lance just – Lance doesn’t understand Keith, at all.

“ ‘ _What the hell, Lance!_ ’? What the _hell_?! _You_ were the one who punched that guy! _You_ could have been arrested, for real! _We_ could have been _stuck_ _here_ , for who knows long! So _what the hell, Keith_!?” he shouts, fumes, he steps into Keith’s space.

(Keith is angry; too.)

“I stood up for you! I _defended_ you! Shouldn’t you be at least a little bit grateful?!” he yells, shoves it at Lance and it just angers Lance, even more.

“Grateful? _Grateful_?! For _what_? Getting us in trouble?!” he pushes and Keith refuses to budge, muscles tense, like he’s fighting an earthquake, a storm.

“I was just trying to be a good friend,” he answers, his lip bleeding again and Keith just lets it stain his sleeve, lets it soak through and Lance suddenly feels like he’s sorry for this kid, like he’s maybe just too tired, to be loved this way, to be cared for, this fierce.

“I have a chapstick in my bag, you can use it,” Lance says, sighing, presses a tissue against Keith’s mouth even though he swats at him, protective and hurt.

“I’m fine.”

“But _I’m_ not. I want food. Proper, hot, dinner food,” Lance says and he gives Keith another tissue, when the first one bleeds through. “I saw a pizzeria that is open 24/7 around the corner but I don’t know if they give service to bleeding people so stop being stubborn and let me get my pizza rolls,” he huffs, throwing the soggy tissue into his pocket, Keith holds out his hand.

“Is it strawberry?”

“Is what strawberry?”

“The chapstick.”

“It’s mango.”

“Okay.” Keith nods, pressing the soft scent into his skin, winces, as it stings, bites.

(Lance has never seen anyone apply chapstick like this, like it’s a weapon, something unknown.)

Keith hands it back and Lance keeps it in his pocket, offers it after they eat and with Keith’s mouth softer, they finally move on, away from this night.

(They finally get away from the city, and Lance can pretend they’re still in the morning memory, that they’re what they were seven hours ago, but somehow, it feels distant now. It feels colder.)

((Somehow, they’re closer now, than they’ve ever been before.))

—

The motel is cheap and reminds Lance of pictures he has seen online, pictures of travel wants, of idealized sceneries, pastel sharp and sunlight soft; they made him want to visit places like this, where signs are neon and not all letters work, visit places he’ll never want to forget.

He listens to Keith brush his teeth, to people watching TV in the other rooms, the cars whose travel didn’t stop yet, outside, and even though the bed is a bit too hard and wobbly, he doesn’t want to move for anything, doesn’t want to get up until the sun shakes him awake, warming up the room.

He washes some leftover salt away, with a gulp of water, the residue stuck on his lips after he’s eaten half of his bag of chips and he watches Keith walk out of the bathroom, smiles at the ghastly, green alien head on Keith’s shirt, the pyjamas for the day.

Worn and faded, Lance guesses Keith has been wearing it for a while, for months and months and it’s not unlike Keith, to own it, it’s not unlike Keith to not be ashamed of it, to not be shy.

(But Lance still has to think about it. About the print, about Keith’s fascination, about the fields and the UFOs, can’t swallow it down or spit it out and it stays in his mouth, stuck, curious; he wants to know.)

((He has to ask.))

They turn off the lights, the neon shine falls through the windows, quiet, the outside hours unstoppable but their room feels slower, colder, good.

(Lance only sees Keith’s back; it makes him feel brave.)

“Say, Keith,” he pauses, somehow feels loud, coarse. Somehow feels like a burglar, about to rob a secret, out of Keith’s head.

(Keith responds.)

“What.”  

“Your shirt has an alien on it,” Lance says, like Keith’s unaware of it. Like Keith’s shirt has a stain, something unknown; it means more than it seems.

“Yeah. And?” Keith answers, and there’s caution, captured on his back.

(Lance sees it through the neon lights.)

“Why do you believe in them anyway?” Lance asks and Keith’s bed whispers, as he moves.

“Will you laugh if I tell you?”

“I don’t know, depends.” Lance smirks. “Did you get abducted by one?”

“If I got abducted, I wouldn’t be here. I would be abducted.” Keith frowns and Lance doesn’t think he could confuse anyone with a question like this; couldn’t want a question answered more.

“It would explain why you’re such a weirdo though,” he teases and Keith rolls his eyes, turns away.

“Goodnight, Lance.”

“Come on, Keith; don’t be like that.”

“No.”

“Keith. Buddy.”

“ _No_.”

“Keith.”

“Lance.”

“ _Keith_.”

“ _Lance_.”

“ _Keith_.”

“Okay, _okay_ ; _fine_!” Keith resigns, frustrated, sitting up. His lungs feel heavy, Lance’s shoulders look strong.

(Nervously, he pushes out words.)

“It’s because of something I believed as a kid, alright?” he says.

“Something you believed as a kid?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it?” Lance asks and as if the question’s too heavy, too expected, Keith sighs, sinks back under his blanket, to the ends of his pillow; his hair crowns the space, left behind.

“When – when I was about five, I saw a movie about aliens. About them abducting people, taking them into their spaceships. Taking them away, to their home. The abducted people went missing and no one could ever find them, again and I thought – I thought it was real. That it was something that can truly happen. And I thought – I thought maybe that’s what happened to my parents. Maybe they were abducted. Maybe they were space diplomats, away on a dangerous mission. Maybe they wanted to uncover a conspiracy and the government was hunting them down so they had to flee but will return for me, when it’s safe again. So I started investigating, read a lot of books. Saw documentaries. Stuff like that,” Keith says and Lance thought – Lance thought it was simpler than that. That Keith saw some runaway light one night, or that he went to Roswell and just really liked the city, or that maybe he had a friend who was really into it.

He never thought –

_fuck_.

“How,” Lance swallows, understands the heaviness, now, the unease. “How long did you believe that?” he asks.

“Until I was like, _ten_. From then on it just kinda stuck with me, believing. Researching. It beats thinking your parents are dead or just simply didn’t want you,” Keith says and Lance vaguely feels like he wants to cry.

(His voice gives it away.)

“That’s. I can’t really – _imagine_ how that feels like. I mean – I dread graduating high school because I’ll have to move away to college and won’t be able to see my family every day anymore. I _already_ miss them. And to imagine what it’s like to not have them, at all, is just – I just – I really can’t,” Lance admits, softly, somehow ashamed. Somehow embarrassed, that he has made Keith tell him, when he could never understand, never fully get it, the reach of Keith’s faith.

Keith shrugs, but he’s watching him, open, received. “I don’t really know how that feels like, either,” he says.

“Feeling homesick?”

“Having a family.”

And – of course. _Of course_ Lance _, you idiot_.

(Because – never having something, never experiencing it, is probably when you miss it, the most.

It’s probably the most homesick for a home you can _feel_.)

((Lance – Lance doesn’t want for Keith to feel like that, anymore.))

“You should visit us. My family,” he blurts out, suddenly, suddenly desperate, suddenly afraid; of what, Lance doesn’t know.

(He just wants Keith to visit them, for Keith to know.)

“Why?”Keith asks, confused and Lance just wants him to know that he can be, that he can be like this, open and vulnerable and sharing and that Lance won’t ruin it, won’t make it meaningless, won’t make him a regret.

“I don’t know. Come over for dinner. Or lunch. Mom’s a really good cook, you’ll love her,” Lance assures him, with a smile, kind and he thinks, he thinks he sees Keith smile, too.

“Okay,” Keith says, nodding and Lance already makes plans.

“Okay,” he echoes, and in the morning, he texts his Mom.

In the morning, the ceiling crushes the noise of their neighbors.

In the morning, Keith waves at him from his bed.

In the morning, Keith brings him breakfast, from the vending machine downstairs.

In the morning, Lance falls in love.

—

Keith does this: bites his lip when there’s a crumb stuck on it.

Checks NASA’s twitter, religiously, saving pictures of galaxies on his phone, saving a picture of Pluto, of the Earth.

(Pictures of dreamt up homes, comforts, lost in black holes and collapsing stars, in freezing acidic rains.)

Keith dislikes: limits. Gravity. Being alone; Lance wouldn’t have guessed. But he knows now, he sees it, when Keith shows him what star has been found on the day of Lance’s birth, when Lance asks him to send it to his mail.

When Lance drags them to the gold fever rivers, even if they’re out of their way, when he tells him whose extinction they’re walking on, whose bones were found here, carnivore, herbivore; all of this was earth.

(When Keith lets him steal his fries and doesn’t let him drive with greasy fingers, when he asks for Lance’s chapstick, every time his lips feel dry.)

When he stands there, Lance’s fingers lining the fall of his jacket, about to pass him the keys, when he looks at him and Lance freezes, nervously, _shy_ , when Lance’s nothing but a long, quiet pause, clutching Keith’s shoulders and he has been piling up courage, has been taping it together from the fallen off pieces of gas tickets, from every mile Keith has driven too fast, showing off and alive, from every fizzy drink Keith has thrown into his lap, Lance just wants to try.

Lance just wants to give it a try; kissing Keith.

He just wants to kiss him, to see.

“What are you doing?” Keith asks and Lance holds him, tighter, holds him, there.

“I’m trying to kiss you,” he says.

“In a parking lot?”

“Yes.”

“In front of Burger King?”

“ _Yes_.”

“But – why do you want to greet me _now_? We’ve been stuck together in a car for _three days_ ,” Keith answers and –

“Greet you?”

“Yeah. You – you kiss people when you greet them. On their cheeks. I saw you.”

“I don’t kiss pe – I don’t want to kiss your _cheeks_ , Keith, geez!” Lance huffs, ears and face and neck _hot_ , sunburned, summer hot, Keith blinks.

“Then what?” he asks, suspicious, cautious, but Lance’s already tasting mango, already kissing the wind on Keith’s mouth away, already missing the hours, the days he has let go without making Keith’s mouth red, without Keith’s nose, pressed into his cheek, uncomfortably, without Keith shifting, their lips brushing, without Keith breathing in a gasp, without Keith dropping the keys, like he got shocked.

It startles them, both, Keith hurriedly picks them up; his face is impossibly red, impossibly bright.

“I guess you had to be good at something,” he says, both shy and smug, pleased and annoyed, he throws the keys at Lance.

“Your turn to drive,” he adds and Lance watches him strap himself in the passenger’s seat; incredulous, offended, turned on.

“What do you mean I had to be good at something?! _I’m good at everything_!” Lance complains, loudly, sulkingly sitting next to him, the car waiting, warm.

“I’m taking a nap,” Keith announces when the engine follows Lance’s fingers, ignited, pressing a pillow onto the window, hugging its fold.

“Oh, so you’re one of _those_ guys.” Lance smirks and Keith looks up; lost.

“What guys?”

“Though, honestly, if only a _kiss_ knocks you out, I don’t want to know what happens when you _orgasm_ ,” Lance continues and Keith’s look does too; Keith answers, slow.

“I … I orgasm…?” he says, like he never thought that’s not something that’s _not_ supposed to happen, that’s not _unusual_ and – _oh my God, can_ anything _insult this guy_?

“Do you not orgasm?” he asks Lance, utterly, completely serious, and Lance groans; wants to bang his head against something, like a wall of bricks or against concrete blocks, he just wants to escape.

“Forget it, Keith,” he says and Keith doesn’t, for another twenty miles.

(Lance should have expected that, too.)

((Shouldn’t he?))


End file.
